


Enduring Echoes

by xsnarksthespot



Series: 4 Times They Faked a Fight and the One Time It Was Real [3]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Bad Acting, Fluff and Angst, Gen, I hate tagging these things, M/M, Sexual Content, There's a whole lot of smirking and sighing okay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-30
Updated: 2014-03-30
Packaged: 2018-01-17 13:25:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1389325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xsnarksthespot/pseuds/xsnarksthespot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Porthos convinces his friends to fake a fight for the entertainment of children in the Court of Miracles, all while agonising over a more-than-friendly drunken encounter with Aramis.</p><p>
  <i>“<i>This isn’t how it goes</i>,” Porthos hisses, low and more breathless than he cares to admit.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>“Is that so? Perhaps you should do something about it, then,” Aramis replies with an infuriatingly blank expression. The bigger Musketeer’s response is a hard shove at the shoulders that dislodges Aramis from his perch. Aramis isn’t smirking and Porthos isn’t laughing, not when they climb to their feet and start slowly circling each other. An intangible tension fills the room and most of the kids have stopped watching the other fight to stare with open-mouthed anticipation at the two men who appear to be seconds away from real violence.</i>
</p><p>[The third in a series that will each have a different Musketeer's POV, until the last piece when they'll all get a say. This one is Porthos. Which means it's grumpy and sweet all rolled into one.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Enduring Echoes

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so I went into this series hoping to keep it mostly Gen, but that just didn't happen. I'm sorry. That said, I tried to keep it from being JUST Portamis as much as I could AND the next piece is d'Artagnan's so that should even things out a bit. Hopefully.
> 
>  _Edited to add_ : I've hated the previous title of this fic ( _To Err is Human; to Pretend It Never Happened is Fucking Torture_ ) ever since I first posted it, so I'm changing it. My apologies. I won't make a habit of this.

“Well. That’s a silly excuse just to come see me.” Flea’s got a hand on her hip and that glint in her eye that still gets his blood pumping - not to his heart, not anymore, but to other parts of him, sure. She still smells of lemons, too. It's a strong clean scent that makes him nostalgic, but Porthos catches a whiff of the poverty of the Court and he’s reminded of the real reason why she's had a thing about lemons for as long as he can recall.

“Is that a no?” Porthos smirks, eyebrows cocked.

Flea laughs and her hips sway as she moves to pour herself a glass of wine. She’s ‘Queen’ around here now, not just the King’s mistress. And it obviously completes her in a way nothing else ever could. “Not bloody likely. D’you think I’d miss out on a show like that? Of course, that’s assuming your friends will even want to take part…”

The taunt earns her the insulted huff he knows she expects, though he feels like part of him is already playing a role. The ex-lover, come to offer services she doesn’t really _need_ but can appreciate nonetheless, all in exchange for a place in her bed for the night. 

His heart’s not all the way in it, but the grin on his face is warm, anyway. For Flea, he can do that much. “It’s _for a good cause_ ,” Porthos exaggerates, a hand over his heart. “Besides, it’s been a slow week. If we don’t find some’fin to fill our time soon, d’Artagnan’s gonna drive one of us to violence. And not the fun kind,” he adds with a cheeky smirk. 

“Mmhmm,” Flea hums. She takes a sip from her glass and eyes him over the rim. “You can bring them by later this week. Anythin' else you want?” Porthos knows that look in her eye as well as he knows every curve of her. He tells himself he wants this, and he does, somewhat, but it’s more that he _needs_ it. Like needing to scratch an itch that’s been driving you bloody mental, just out of reach, for weeks on end. Maybe you have to use a fork or a stick or something that could hurt almost as much as it heals, but at least the flavour of the pain will be different and hell, that’s a relief unto itself.

He damn well knows it’s a little unfair to Flea, but he knows _her_ , too. The Court is the only thing that will ever hold her heart. She’s a flickering candle in a dark, drafty hallway. Enticing. Beautiful. But ultimately, a fleeting source of comfort before she leaves you stumbling around like an idiot in the pitch black.

Porthos steps into her space, taking the wine glass out of her hand and setting it to the side. Her hands are already sliding up his chest, kneading at the leather of his doublet and pulling him to her mouth. Thankfully, the taste of her is the familiar relief he knew it would be. He silences his nagging thoughts with a growling drag of his mouth and hands.

\-----

“Did Flea put you up to this?” Athos smirks, later, when they’re circling each other in the yard. Aramis is at Porthos’ back, sparring intently with d’Artagnan. He can hear them trading sarcastic banter even over the clash of their steel.

“No,” Porthos grumbles, taking a distracted swing with his fists. His voice sounds petulant, even to him, and he regrets telling them all about Flea. Athos easily dodges his attack, which is enough to make him grumble a second time. “I thought it might be a nice change from this _endless fuckin’ trainin’_ , is all.” 

“What might be a nice change from this _endless fucking training_?” Aramis teases, falling in at Porthos’ shoulder, which grinds the half-hearted trading of blows to a halt. “....More importantly, why do you smell like you’ve been rolling in lemons?” His smile lists at this question, like a boat about to sink, and he squints at Porthos in confusion. There’s a hint of something else, too, but Porthos can’t tell what and he refuses to attribute jealousy over the smell of a bloody fruit. There’s no reason to believe Aramis has any clue about the source of that scent and even if he _did_ \--.

Porthos tenses, shoving his thoughts into a corner of his mind already so full of the ones he tried to discard the night before, with apparently mixed results, that it’s like trying to dig a hole as someone dumps all the dirt back in on top of him.

“ _You_ smell like lemons,” Porthos grunts childishly. He needs to get a grip on his emotions, _now_. Not at some point, not tomorrow, right this fucking second. It’s been weeks of this nonsense. But bottling his frustration is not happening here and now, not with Athos giving him the ‘ _no, no, don’t stop embarrassing yourself on my account_ ’ eyebrow raise and Aramis staring at him in quiet speculation.

It takes everything in him not to grab Aramis by the shoulders and shake the man violently until that thoughtful stare isn’t gouging right through the heart of him.

“Who smells like lemons?” d’Artagnan chimes in belatedly, chewing on something as he finally wanders into the fray. That stupid bloody question is the last straw, particularly when coupled with the clueless bewilderment on the lad’s face. Porthos grinds his teeth and spins on a heel. He’s out of the garrison yard before anyone can say another word.

\-----

The numbing effect of Flea’s touch is officially gone by the next morning and Porthos is wrapped up in his head so tightly he’s sure he’ll never carve his way out again.

It’s been some time since that night - _some time_ , his traitorous brain chides, _as if you don’t know exactly how many days it’s been_ \- and still the memories are few and far between. What they lack in number, however, they more than make up for in torturous clarity. 

He remembers the shuffling of horses’ hooves in nearby stalls. The pleasant burn of apple brandy in his veins. A bawdy laugh that he only belatedly realises came out of his own mouth and not from the inn next door.

He remembers how soft the hair just behind Aramis’ ear is and how it baffled him even then. The brush of a smirking, bearded mouth against his throat. Hurried strokes of calloused hands in the dark. His friend’s hands were smoother, but they still bore a soldier’s grip. 

He won’t be forgetting that part anytime soon.

He remembers the taste of Aramis’ name on his tongue, too. As familiar as his own, and yet, so deliciously foreign as he crashed over the edge into sweltering release.

Clearest of all, he remembers the wordless sound forced out of Aramis, by teeth sinking into the patch of exposed skin at his shoulder, just as he reached his own climax. That dizzying cry somewhere between pleasure and pain, pushed out through gritted teeth and only half-smothered against Porthos’ temple. The echo of it still vibrates inside of his dumb skull and he knows, without a doubt, that he didn't spare a single thought for whether they would end up caught and bound, side-by-side on a pyre by sunrise.

That is to say, he remembers _enough_. Plenty to keep him awake at night, sweating and furious. Risking their lives to protect the king or an innocent or _each other_ is one thing. It’s who they are. This is something else.

He can’t blame the drink. Maybe he should; there was probably enough alcohol in his blood to douse a small village. 

But he can’t blame the drink. Not when he’s drunk that much and more a hundred times. Not when it was shortly after his disastrous birthday and his too-close brush with execution. Not when he knows he wants it now just as much as he wanted it then.

Not when he is clearly the world’s biggest fool. 

He deserves this, and worse. The memories, the painful return to business as usual after waking up in his own bed, alone, loose-limbed and sated in a way that ached all on its own. It’s his just reward for testing fate and convincing Aramis to help him drown childhood memories of Charon in a bottle.

It’s been _some time_ , and Porthos can’t remember if they even kissed, which is somehow more hysterically agonising than all of the rest combined.

\-----

“You’re supposed to parry and spin to the _right_ , there, knocking my sword away. You’re _not_ supposed to take a whack in the gut with a dumb look on your face. …Are you even paying attention?” d’Artagnan is amused. Normally, Porthos would enjoy that. Encourage it, even, with a joke or a cheeky return.

He manages only an embarrassed grimace of a smile in this case. “Sorry. Head’s somewhere else.” Squaring his shoulders, Porthos spins his broadsword deftly in his grip, readying it for another attempt at rehearsal. “Again,” he growls.

d’Artagnan squints and doesn’t move. “Do you….want to talk about it?”

The murderous glare levelled at d’Artagnan could likely make water boil. At the very least, it leaves no room for doubt that Porthos definitely does not, _in any way, shape, or form_ , want to _talk about it_. d’Artagnan immediately lifts his hands defensively, sword loosely gripped in one fist, his eyebrows climbing comically high.

“All right, all right, calm down. It was just a question. I figured if I’m pretending to be Aramis while he’s off on an errand for Treville, I should at least _try_ to do it justice.” His face settles back into twitching amusement, which earns him an abrupt clang of Porthos’ sword against his.

“ _C’mon_ ,” Porthos barks and d’Artagnan only hesitates a split second before he’s recounting the latest flirtatious bickering session he had with _Madame_ Bonacieux and swinging his sword with casual disregard. Halfway through the story, Porthos drops him on his arse, staging be damned.

\-----

“Remind me why I agreed to this,” Athos sighs, adjusting the laughably elaborate courtier’s costume he’s wearing like it is slowly and _efficiently_ suffocating his will to live. 

“Because of the kids,” Porthos replies matter-of-factly. He reaches out to tug the collar away from his friend’s neck. “And unbearable boredom, obviously.” Porthos is dressed in his usual Musketeers uniform, which isn’t fair in the least bit, but then he wasn’t the one that decided on the details.

“You look _perfect_.” Aramis is smiling smugly as he brushes his palms over Athos’ shoulders to smooth out mostly nonexistent wrinkles in the brightly coloured fabric. He’s equally dressed up in finery, though not as flamboyantly, and Porthos tries not to let his gaze linger on the snug fit of his doublet. It’s hard enough shoving down the urge to be jealous at the way he rolls the word _perfect_ off his tongue.

“You look _ridiculous_ ,” d’Artagnan counters. Even Porthos can recognise the edge of pity in his voice, though he’s not entirely sure the cause is a simple as secondhand discomfort. The lad is dressed as a Musketeer, Athos’ leather pauldron on his shoulder - which would probably get them all courtmartialed if they’re caught, but seeing as they’re in the relative sanctuary of the Court of Miracles, it’s not really a concern. Besides, the doe-eyed smile on his face when they strapped it on was worth what little risk there is.

d’Artagnan musters up a smirk. “ _Perfectly_ ridiculous, that is.”

Porthos laughs and the sound visibly eases the tension out of Athos’ shoulders. He even smiles, which inspires a grin from Porthos in turn. Hooking an arm around Athos’ neck, Porthos bodily walks him towards the curtain separating them from the “stage”.

“Not to worry, Athos. We’ll have you out of that costume in no time,” he teases, eyebrows waggling, before they step out into an open area surrounded by children of all ages. 

News of this silly little performance probably spread like brush fire. Many of the children in the Court are orphans, whether literally or because their families abandoned them, and diversion can sometimes be as hard to come by as food. It’s what inspired Porthos to begin with, remembering the dozens of times he and Charon had hid in the rafters of a shitty little theatre down the way just for an hour of harmless entertainment.

Staring back at all those wide and ready, dirt-covered faces, he can’t stop the tight feeling that constricts inside his chest. 

“I hope you lot ‘membered what I said about only bringin’ coin you were willin’ to lose…” Porthos smirks over his shoulder as Flea joins them, wearing her own version of a courtier costume. He turns that smirk on her now, eyebrows lifting, a slow appreciative glance taking in the whole of her with an approving sound from the back of his throat. 

“Cut it out,” she laughs, rolling her eyes before turning to address the other three. “Alright, then…Last chance to _pull out_ , boys.” d’Artagnan snorts at the turn of phrase and tries to disguise the noise by clearing his throat. Grinning, Porthos shifts his gaze to share an amused glance with Aramis, but he’s surprised to find his friend staring at Flea next to him as if he’s just realized the answer to all of life’s questions and he’s not particularly happy about them. If that weren’t enough to dim the grin on Porthos’ face, the way Aramis smiles at him does the trick. It’s his iciest smirk and Porthos can’t remember ever having it aimed directly at him.

“Let’s get on with it, hm?” Aramis say breezily, clapping a hand tightly on Porthos’ shoulder as he passes by.

\-----

The scene is simple in plot - two courtiers fight over a woman and get into a comical fight with Musketeers, during which she robs the four of them blind. It’s exaggerated to the extreme, but that’s the point, and they’re rewarded with loud, shameless laughter at every turn. 

Athos plays his part as a worthless excuse for a fighter with surprising enthusiasm and d’Artagnan is clearly enjoying the act of disarming him before tossing him around with blustering threats bellowing out of his mouth.

Aramis, on the other hand, seems to have forgotten that he’s supposed to _lose_ this fight. Pinned to the ground with Aramis' arm across his chest, pressing down, Porthos frowns. His pulse catches in his throat as his friend leans down to hover a bit too close for comfort.

“ _This isn’t how it goes_ ,” Porthos hisses, low and more breathless than he cares to admit. 

“Is that so? Perhaps you should do something about it, then,” Aramis replies with an infuriatingly blank expression. The bigger Musketeer’s response is a hard shove at the shoulders that dislodges Aramis from his perch. Aramis isn’t smirking and Porthos isn’t laughing, not when they climb to their feet and start slowly circling each other. An intangible tension fills the room and most of the kids have stopped watching the other fight to stare with open-mouthed anticipation at the two men who appear to be seconds away from real violence. 

This is the opposite of what Porthos wants and that fact is abruptly painted in stark relief across his face.

The wind in Aramis’ sails seems to deflate. Shoulders slumping, he takes a haphazard swing that Porthos easily sidesteps and then they’re back in line with the practices they’ve done over the last few days. Even still, Aramis is clearly just going through the motions with only a weak attempt to sell the humor behind all of this. Porthos isn’t much better, but then, he has always been too tightly bound to Aramis’ moods.

Athos and d’Artagnan whisper quietly to each other and then come crashing into them, improvising a switch of partners. By the end of it all, d’Artagnan has the feathers from Aramis’ borrowed hat jammed into his hair and an apple jutting out of his mouth. Porthos’ feet are sticking out from under a table and Athos is faking silent sobs after dramatically realising his purse is gone. 

The kids hoot and whistle, which only gets louder when Flea distributes her “ill-gotten” gains. In a blink, they’re gone, nothing but four bemused men shuffling to their feet and awkward silence left in their wake.

It doesn’t last long.

“How in the name of--she even got the livre I hid in my boot for emergencies!” d’Artagnan whines, tapping his empty boot against the nearest table with a childlike grimace.

Unsurprisingly, the only sympathy he gets is in the form of two full-bodied laughs and a crooked smile.

\-----

It’s well past midnight when Porthos hears a knock on his door. He considers ignoring it, feigning sleep. Between the events of the day and the lateness of the hour, he’s convinced it can’t be a good thing. He’s also convinced he should have gone to Aramis already. Instead, he buried his nose in a book his friend had left there weeks before and pretended he didn’t need to reread each page at least twice for it to stick.

The second knock is louder. Insistent.

Porthos exhales loudly and moves to the swing open the door. Aramis casually enters past him without asking for permission, or even a hello. There’s a grim smile on Porthos’ face as he nudges the door shut with a shoulder and leans his back against it.

“It’s late…” he murmurs.

“Oh, I’m aware,” Aramis smirks, an inscrutable laugh clinging to his words as he turns to face Porthos. “You know, I thought, I’ll give him time. All the time he needs. There is no rush. Eventually he will realise what we’ve always been on the precipice of...what we _are_ to each other. And it won’t take alcohol to get us there.”

Stiffening in surprise against the door, Porthos watches Aramis step closer, slipping his hat off and abandoning it on a side table as he moves.

“But that was unfair of me, wasn’t it? Waiting for the most stubborn man I know to come to _me_ , like I’m some blushing virgin who needs to be _delicately wooed_.” His words are said with such genuine good humor that Porthos can’t help the small laugh that shutters his eyes briefly. He opens his mouth to say something, anything, but Aramis isn’t quite done.

“I was unfair to you today, too, Porthos,” Aramis quietly admits, a hand reaching up to slide through the downy waves of his hair. “I was jealous. When I smelled the lemon on her. Which is ridiculous, obviously. For so many reasons. But...it was _Flea_.” Inching forward, Aramis drops his hand to the back of his neck and stares at him with a patient longing in his eyes. Porthos feels his pulse skip and race wildly away.

He’s reaching out, before he even knows what he intends to do, and he curls his fingers under the buckle of one of Aramis’ belts, drawing him closer. All the arguments he had ready - just in case - how they’d be fooling themselves, how dangerous this was, how all of Aramis' women might slowly but surely drive him mad for all he knows, _all_ of that falls to the wayside when faced with that steady stare. Porthos will happily accept whatever Aramis is willing to give, consequences be damned.

“You could love her. Without fear. And I don't know that she would willingly share you,” Aramis sighs, even as he's fisting his hands into the fabric of Porthos’ shirt. “You _did_ love her, didn’t you?”

“Maybe. Once,” Porthos answers simply. He’s already lost in warm brown eyes and the twitch of Aramis’ mouth that suggests he’d like a more complete answer, but he isn’t really expecting one. “Past tense. For _both_ of us. Now…” he sighs, bringing his free hand up to lace his fingers into Aramis’ hair and slowly pull until the man’s throat is bared for his mouth to explore. “Do you really wanna keep talkin’ about Flea, or can I get to that _delicate wooing_ bit?” he murmurs against Aramis’ skin.

Aramis hums, low and pleased, but there’s an edge of laughter in his voice when he finally speaks. “This, I simply must see.” 

“Oi. I can be _delicate_.” The mock-offense in Porthos’ tone is immediately and irrevocably shattered by the growl that rumbles through his teeth as Aramis drops a hand to clutch him greedily through his trousers. His grip in Aramis' hair tightens to just this side of painful. “You’re gonna regret that.”

“I doubt that very much." Aramis' voice is thready already, but he still manages a lazy smirk and another deft move of his hand.

Porthos drives them back towards the bed and then onto to it before he remembers something vital, something he desperately needs to know. He halts in his attempts to unbuckle one of Aramis’ entirely too many belts and clasps him by the neck.

“Before, in the stable...did I kiss you?” There’s a youthful nervousness in his voice that makes him want to punch something as hard he can, but there isn’t a whole lot he can do about it now.

“...What?”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, don’t make me ask it twice,” Porthos grumbles, dropping his face to Aramis’ neck, which trembles suddenly with quiet laughter. A long pause follows - too damn long - before Aramis threads his fingers into Porthos' curls and finally answers. Even with his face buried, Porthos can hear the joking smirk that accompanies the words.

“...Not on the mouth?”

Barking laughter, Porthos extracts himself from the crook of Aramis’ neck and shakes his head. “Sometimes, I really don’t know what to do with you,” he smiles. Their gazes lock, Porthos hovering, their breath mingling.

“Oh. Well, why didn’t you say so? I’ll make a list.”

Porthos smothers Aramis’ maddening grin with his mouth, the echo of a laugh still rolling on his tongue.


End file.
